


Crossed in Love

by quiversarrow



Category: Miraculous Ladybug, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7716814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiversarrow/pseuds/quiversarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the clumsy, hopelessly romantic child of a French baker and a Chinese sailor's daughter, Marinette Dupain-Cheng doubts that she will ever marry. This changes, however, when wealthy bachelors Mr. Nino Lahiffe and aloof, wintry Mr. Adrien Agreste arrive in their port town and Marinette finds herself the object of attention of an unwanted suitor. </p><p>Loosely follows the plot of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> just FYI this is my FIRST LONG FIC EVER--not just in the ML fandom, but in anything--so i would definitely appreciate some constructive criticism. this is also way out of my usual genre, since i've always written original fantasy and sci-fi. so wish me luck!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Césaire and Dupain-Cheng families dine together and some very exciting news is delivered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introducing characters! obviously marinette doesn't have a ton of siblings like lizzy does so i mashed the césaires and the dupain-chengs together lol. i liked the dynamic though, so i hope anyone who reads this does too!

“Come now, Marinette, a single man with a fortune of any kind must be in want of a wife!” Alya Césaire gestured broadly at her friend, who leaned against the doorway with one eyebrow raised. “And who knows? Perhaps one of those men is in want of _you_.”

“Me?” Marinette scoffed. “Miss Marinette Dupain-Cheng, daughter of a French baker and a Chinese sailor’s daughter, too clumsy and poor to leave the property? Hardly. You flatter me.” 

“No, it’s true. Surely there is some man whose riches match your boundless beauty and intellect. Longbourne’s walls aren’t worthy of you.”

“Fitting, since I’m constantly falling into them.”

Alya laughed. 

“Granted,” she said, kicking her legs up so that she flung herself off of the couch. “Your clumsiness may mar your resumé, but I think you’re still selling yourself short.” She joined her friend in the doorway, where they both had a clear view of the dining room and their families preparing for their usual joint dinner. 

Marinette smiled fondly as the jumbled Chinese-French hybrid her parents spoke wafted over to her from the kitchen along with Délia Césaire’s frantic cries for peace. The second eldest Césaire sister threw up her hands as Fifi and Isabel screamed over each other for the chair beside their father. Élodie sat across from him, her bonnet pulled over her ears and a book in her hands. Father and daughter looked sidelong at the squabbling girls and then shared a forlorn glance. 

“Mum better be here soon,” Alya grumbled. “Before we tear your house apart. Sorry about that.”

“It’s quite alright,” Marinette replied. As an only child, she welcomed the presence of her lively neighbors in her home. It wasn’t often that anything of consequence occurred at Longbourne, especially when she and her parents were the only ones around. Mrs. Cheng was a quiet soul and Mr. Dupain only ever wanted to speak of the Ladybug, the dream bakery he had built at the edge of the property. The Césaires were, Marinette liked to think, the best thing that had ever happened to her, even if they were sometimes rather vexing. 

The tinkling of bells alerted the families to their new arrival and visibly drained the tension from Alya’s shoulders. In the dining room, Fifi and Isabel froze and darted for the front door with delighted shouts, suddenly best friends again. 

“Mum!”

“Joséfine, you’ve scratched yourself again. Have you been causing trouble?”

“Not at all,” Fifi replied innocently, “although Isabel won’t let me sit next to Papá.”

“Let you?” Isabel demanded. “I sat there first. You were the one trying to take it from me! By pushing me!”

“I didn’t push you!”

“Ah, so you shoved me gently.”

“Girls,” Marlena Césaire tutted, ushering her youngest daughters into the dining room and tossing her worn apron over a chair. Alya took her mother’s entrance as her cue and pulled on Marinette’s sleeve. They entered the room at the same time that Tom and Sabine Dupain-Cheng arrived with a platter of Chinese-French fusion dishes, complete with a side of freshly baked croissants. 

The whine of chair legs scraping against the hardwood floor filled the room as the families found their seats. Isabel finally ceded the chair beside her father to Fifi, but not before she gleefully stole her sister’s croissant off of her plate and bit into it with a crooked grin. 

“Mum!” 

Marinette glanced at the Césaire matron, expecting her usual exasperated sigh. She didn’t get it. Marlena was uncharacteristically silent, a secretive, almost mischievous expression on her face. For a moment, she looked as if she was about to join her youngest daughters in their antics.

“Marlena,” Sabine said, her brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright?” 

Tom cracked a smile.

“Is it because of the meal? It’s a shame you couldn’t cook for us. Perhaps one of these days you could neglect the knight and his lady and give us a taste of divine cuisine.”

“Perhaps,” Marlena agreed, “though I imagine they wouldn’t be particularly pleased with me. I do like my job, Mr. Dupain.”

“Then what is it?” 

Marlena popped a croissant into her mouth and let her eyes rove around the table. Marinette got the sense that she was building suspense. 

“News,” she said. “Have any of you heard of Netherfield Park?”

“Of course,” Alya said. “Acres upon acres of land with a pristine mansion to boot. It belongs to one of those old noblemen.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Belonged,” Marlena corrected her. “I heard from one of the lady’s guests that the owner has passed. A certain Mr. Nino Lahiffe will be arriving from the north to claim the property.”

“Lahiffe?” Sabine asked, leaning in, clearly intrigued. Marinette winced as her mother’s gaze landed on her. “Married or single?”

“Single,” Marlena replied, beaming. “With a hefty inheritance and an income of four or five thousand a year. Perfect for our girls!”

“How so?” asked Mr. Césaire from the end of the table. Élodie buried her head further into her book, grumbling about wanting to read in peace. 

“How so?” repeated his wife indignantly. “Surely you can understand how beneficial a marriage between this man and one of our daughters could be. Four or five thousand a year…they would be set for life!”

“Rather hard if they never meet,” Mr. Césaire pointed out.

“That won’t be a problem. Mr. Lahiffe is attending the ball that Sir Oswald and his lady are hosting this weekend. I have already informed the knight that we’re going.”

“A ball??” Isabel squealed, grabbing Fifi’s hand so hard that the latter cried out in pain. “Why, we must go out to town and buy dresses! And jewelry! And perhaps those feathers that have been all the rage these days.”

“And maybe one of soldiers will look our way,” Fifi added, winking. Marlena shushed her and locked eyes with her husband, who was sliding farther and farther under the table as if he was trying to become one with the floor.

“Now all we need is a word with the man.”

“How do you know I’ll see him?”

“You’re a well-liked, well-to-do man, Abel. You’ll find a way.”

It was then that Marinette noticed a smile tugging on the edges of her father’s mouth. Her eyes narrowed. On his left, Sabine had also noticed the muffled glee in her husband’s face. 

“Tom,” she hissed. 

“Sabine.”

“Please tell us what you’ve so unkindly kept to yourself.”

Tom Dupain’s face split into a wide, unbridled grin.

“I spoke to him today. Put in a good word for all of our girls.”

There was a moment of profound silence before the air exploded. Marlena buried her face in her handkerchief and began to sob as if all five of her daughters had died. Isabel and Fifi began dancing around the room while Élodie squeezed her eyes shut and mouthed what seemed like an urgent prayer. Délia lost all pretense of being the maternal older sister and kept shaking her mother’s arm, eagerly asking permission to buy “that perfect teal dress” with the money she had saved. 

“Your perfect man might be at this ball,” Alya whispered to Marinette over her plate of nearly-finished beef and rice. Color flooded Marinette’s cheeks as she tried to stifle the hope blossoming in her chest.

“I doubt it,” she said. “I’m one of those hopeless romantics whose expectations for love will leave me a dead old maid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyy ladies and gents (and non-binary folks) get ready bc the ball is coming!!
> 
> kudos and comments and anything are HUGELY appreciated, especially since this is my first fic and i don't really know what i'm doing lol (like i said, constructive criticism is appreciated!!)


	2. Sir Oswald's Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Césaires and Dupain-Chengs attend a ball and Marinette meets the king of bad first impressions, Mr. Adrien Agreste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i added another chapter to my projected chapter count, both to give myself a bit of wiggle room and to add space for the netherfield ball (which i wasn't going to include before because reasons)
> 
> my apologies if there are any glaring mistakes in this; i wrote most of it at 3 AM this morning (bc tea + insomnia = a dumb amount of sleep)
> 
> thank you so much for all of your support!! i wasn't expecting any of this and am just so thrilled right now; you have no idea. i love you guys so much!! <3

It was nearly dark when they arrived at the ball. Marinette’s grip tightened on the side of the carriage as it ground to a halt in front of Sir Oswald’s home. She could vaguely make out the silhouettes of lacy gowns and coattails clustered in a line outside of the house, the glow of the light inside painting their outlines yellow. 

She swallowed a nervous lump in her throat just in time for a tap on her shoulder to catch her attention. She glanced behind her to meet Alya’s eager eyes. 

“Come on,” she said, gently nudging Marinette until she clambered out of the carriage, the gravel hard and bumpy beneath her pink slippers. “Don’t be shy.”

“But I _am_ shy,” Marinette complained. Alya snorted. 

“No you’re not. You’re just saying that. This dance will be just the thing for you, Miss Dupain-Cheng, you’ll see. Now hurry up; our families are leaving us.”

Marinette followed her friend’s outstretched finger and spotted the feather-clad heads of the remaining Césaire sisters already racing towards the house. Behind them, walking at a much more leisurely pace, were both Alya’s parents and her own. Sighing, she let Alya loop her arm through hers and lead her towards the crowd.

The line had shrunk considerably by the time the girls reached it. Nevertheless, both of their families were nowhere in sight when they entered the main hall. Laughter, faint music, and the babble of idle chatter filled the room like smoke. 

“Where did they go?” Marinette whispered to Alya.

“No idea. Shouldn’t be too hard to find them, though. Everyone will head towards the dancing. This is a ball, after all.” She grabbed the end of Marinette’s ribboned sleeve and tugged her through the doorway to their left. They burst into a hall much wider than the first. A lively fiddle accompanied the five or six couples already spinning across the floor.

“There’s Délia,” Alya said, pointing out a flash of teal amidst the dancers. “Seems that she’s already found a partner. Should be easy enough.”

“Easy?” Marinette repeated dubiously, gesturing at herself. “Do you fancy me a dancer?”

“With the right partner, even your silly feet will find a way,” Alya laughed. “Now, come on. Let’s find somewhere with a good view.” She strode off, forcing Marinette to follow. Out of the corner of her eye, Marinette followed Délia’s path across the floor, enviously noting the bright smile on the younger girl’s face as she paralleled the steps of the man before her. 

It was because of this that Alya’s sudden stop caught her off-guard.

“What is it?” she snapped, pinwheeling her arms to keep her balance. She thanked her lucky stars that she hadn’t crashed into her friend, for once. A fall at a public dance would have been the worst humiliation of all. 

“Over there,” Alya whispered, pointing towards the back of the hall. “That’s them.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Lahiffe and his friends.”

“He brought friends?” Marinette asked, surprised. She craned her neck. Over the heads of the spinning dancers, near the house’s back entrance, she could just make out a blonde woman in a blindingly yellow dress, flanked by two men in elegant suits. 

“The one in the blue is Mr. Lahiffe,” said Alya, her eyes never leaving the trio as they chatted amongst themselves. “And the one in green is Mr. Adrien Agreste, his friend. Apparently just as wealthy, too.” 

She glanced sidelong at Marinette before sweeping a hand towards her forehead in a dramatic faux swoon, clearly imitating her mother. “10,000 a year! By golly!” She returned to her own voice and shook her head. “As if that money were already hers.”

“It would be if you married him.”

“No,” Alya replied, smirking. “It would be mine. And, unbeknownst to Mum, what is mine is not necessarily hers as well.”

The trio was now close enough to them that Marinette could make out their features. Dark, amber-eyed Nino Lahiffe was, she had to admit, a rather handsome man, especially dressed in his sleek blue coat. Yet it was Mr. Agreste who truly captured her eye. She now had a clear view of his lithe viridian-clad figure, as well as his golden blond hair and lime-green eyes.

As striking as he was, however, there was something odd about the cold, indifferent way in which he regarded the room. It was almost as if he was watching from a distance, present in body but not quite in mind.

The blonde in front of him slowed her step until he was beside her and then tilted her chin to whisper something in his ear. He nodded stiffly, his mouth a flat displeased line, before turning back to the crowd. 

Marinette leaned towards Alya.

“And the woman?” she murmured.

“Miss Chloé Bourgeois,” Alya answered, her voice equally soft. Marinette noticed with some surprise that her friend’s gaze remained on Mr. Lahiffe, who was directing bright smiles at every dancer who met his eye. “Childhood friend of both Mr. Lahiffe and Mr. Agreste, according to Mum. They all hail from the same northern town.” 

Alya watched the trio pensively, drawing her bottom lip into her mouth until she seemed to come to a decision. Marinette jumped as she grabbed her arm.

“Where are we going?” she demanded as Alya towed her along the edge of the dance floor, weaving between occupied chairs and standing spectators.

“Closer,” she answered, not bothering to turn around. “We’re never going to dance with those men if we don’t get close.”

“WHAT?” Marinette squeaked, freezing in her tracks. She used all of her weight to pull Alya to a stop with her.

“Marinette, come on!” Alya snapped, yanking on her arm. Marinette, however, refused to let go.

“I’m not,” she said through gritted teeth, “dancing.” 

“Not even with Mr. Agreste?” Alya demanded. “Don’t think I didn’t see the way you looked at him. He’s got great emerald eyes, just the right height—”

“Stop it.”

“—look at that blond hair—”

“I said stop it, Alya!”

“—and those coattails, how dare—”

“Fine!” Marinette snapped. She cowered and lowered her voice as a few of the guests around her turned and stared. She released Alya’s arm. “Fine. I’ll go. But do let us go quietly! We can’t afford to draw any more attention to ourselves.”

“You’re too self-conscious,” Alya said with a roll of her eyes, looking over her shoulder as she resumed her walk. “No one’s looking at us anymore. We’re fine.” 

Marinette, her head bowed to hide the heat in her cheeks, followed without a word. She and Alya were now barely feet away from the trio, so close that she could hear the dulcet tones of Chloé Bourgeois over the music. 

“…can’t believe Nino convinced us to come here,” she was saying. “I was expecting something more civilized, less…raunchy.” She pawed the ground with the tip of her yellow heel and wrinkled her nose as if she could sense a puff of invisible dust. Marinette fought the urge to snicker. 

“I think it’s wonderful,” Nino said, his eyes gleaming. “Such a lively crowd, such enthusiastic dancers! I didn’t know so many smiley people existed.”

“Smiley indeed,” Chloé replied disparagingly. “They must make up for their poor dancing and plain dresses with _something_. Might as well be their sickening enthusiasm.” She ended with a quick, rather smug smile before glancing at Mr. Agreste for approval. When her look was ignored, she frowned and spoke again. 

“You haven’t commented on the place yet, Adrien. What do you think?”

He looked at her slowly, as if surfacing from a particularly interesting daydream.

“What was that?”

“The place. Any thoughts?”

“Oh.” His eyes once again panned the ballroom in the distant, indifferent manner that seemed to be uniquely his. “It’s nice.”

“Nice?” Chloé pressed. “If it’s so nice, how come you haven’t danced with anyone? Noticed anything about the people? How plain they are? The splotchy floor?” She ran her shoes across the ground again. Marinette thought, rather savagely, that her heels must have been responsible for half the supposed splotchiness of Sir Oswald’s floor. 

“Oh, I haven’t danced with anyone yet,” Nino realized aloud, tapping Chloé on the shoulder. “Is that bad? Do you think they’ll mind if I ask?” He gazed anxiously at the dance floor, which had swapped out its couples again. “They seem to have their own way of doing things.”

“I highly doubt they would mind at all,” Chloé replied, smiling wryly. “Half of them are already staring at you and Adrien. You would probably make their miserable lives.”

Nino nodded, his amber eyes already scanning the crowd of girls standing on the sidelines. He stepped forward before glancing over his shoulder at Adrien, who remained stock-still, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you coming?”

Adrien’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you joking? You know I don’t dance at these sorts of events.”

“You don’t dance at any events except the ones at home.”

“Precisely.”

Nino sighed.

“I spoke to a gentleman on my way to Netherfield the other day,” he said. “A Mr. Dupain, I think?” 

Marinette’s knees went weak. Mr. Lahiffe remembered her father? What had he said? She hoped he hadn’t mentioned her clumsiness or his embarrassingly passionate love for the Ladybug.

“He mentioned a daughter of his. Marinette. And five daughters of a certain Mr. Césaire, all redheads, all perfect dance partners. Perhaps one of them?”

“Oh my God,” Alya whispered under her breath. “Perfect dance partners?”

“You sound like your mother,” Marinette whispered back, though inside she was about to explode. The feeling only intensified when Nino turned to the crowd and, his expression triumphant, spotlighted Alya and Marinette with a wave in their direction. A hundred eyes turned to face them and Marinette immediately wanted to melt into the floor. 

“There they are,” Nino said, oblivious to the small meltdowns both girls were having. “I could ask for Miss Césaire’s hand if you would take her friend.”

Marinette felt as if the whole world was holding its breath. Confetti waited in the wings. In the back of her head, an imaginary crowd waited to cheer. Then Adrien spoke, and with a single word he sent every hope she had harbored for Sir Oswald’s ball crashing to the ground. 

“No.”

“What?” Alya breathed, her eyes wide. Marinette said nothing, her vision blurring with unshed tears. No. No, he didn’t want to dance with the clumsy girl. No, her father’s praise hadn’t been enough. No. No, Mr. Adrien Agreste of 10,000 a year with the beautiful green eyes and blond hair didn’t want to dance with her. 

All of that would have been enough to ruin her night, but Adrien didn’t stop there.

“She is pretty enough for her kind, but certainly not enough to tempt me.”

_For her kind?_ Marinette mouthed the words in disbelief, a sudden surge of fiery hot rage ripping through her sadness. _For her kind?_ What, she couldn’t be beautiful because her parents were foreign? Because her father had poured every inch of his being into the manual labor he hated in order to set up the dream bakery that he loved? Because her mother had been born on a ship with a sailor for a father and not a penny to her name? Because her black hair and narrow eyes meant she wasn’t English enough?

By the time she had calmed down enough to see, Adrien and Chloé had disappeared into the crowd, no doubt to dance with one another. They would make a fine couple, with their sour and prejudiced view on their “inferiors.” Marinette was about ready to spit fire.

“I’m sorry about him.” Nino’s voice snapped her to attention. She looked up at him, somehow materialized beside her, and noted the warmth in his eyes, the genuine regret in his voice. How could a kind soul like him be friends with a fiend like Adrien Agreste?

“It’s alright,” she said, though bitterness still seeped into her voice. “He’s entitled to his own opinion.” Nino shook his head.

“He’ll come around,” he said. “He’s too used to home. Less people, less noise, less attention. He’s just uncomfortable here.”

“Of course.”

“So, um…” Nino shuffled. They had reached the part of the conversation for which he had come.

“Would you mind if I danced with Miss Césaire?”

The question came so suddenly that Marinette couldn’t help but laugh. Alya’s almost imperceptible squeal of excitement only made her smile wider.

“Of course not,” she said, meaning it. “She would love to. Though she would love it more if you asked her yourself.”

“Oh, um…”

Alya’s face lit with a devilish grin. 

“Come on, you.”

She swept towards the dance floor, her hand shooting behind her to grab him. Nino seemed rather startled, but didn’t protest. Marinette watched them for a moment before edging towards the back of the hall, slipping into an empty seat unseen and burying her face in her hands.

“Somebody looks dejected.” 

She raised her head and met her father’s concerned gaze. She sighed and leaned her chin against her hands, tracing Alya and Nino’s path across the floor with her eyes. 

“I thought this was going to be the one, Papá,” she whispered. “Alya said that I could find my perfect man here and I thought…it was foolish, I know…but part of me thought she was going to be right.”

“Perhaps she was wrong this time,” Mr. Dupain said after a long pause. “But I spoke with Mr. Lahiffe and he seems enthusiastic about the prospect of another ball, this time at his Netherfield property. You may have better luck then, little ladybug.” 

He kissed her head. Normally she hated it when he called her his “little ladybug,” as if she were just an extension of his beloved bakery, but today she let him have it.

“I just hope Mr. Agreste isn’t there,” she murmured.

“What?” her papá asked.

“Nothing.”

—

Near the end of the ball, Marinette received a final insult from Adrien Agreste. She was standing near the doorway, her father just a few chairs away, when he approached her. She held his gaze until he was right in front of her, careful to keep her head high and her shoulders straight.

She would not cave in front of Adrien Agreste. She would not give him that pleasure.

“Mr. Agreste,” she said. It took all of her willpower not to spit at his feet.

“Miss Dupain-Cheng,” he acknowledged. His eyes roved the area around them before returning to her. “I was hoping I could find you before this event ended.”

“Well, you’ve succeeded.” 

“Yes. I would greatly appreciate it if you would,” he took a breath and then continued, “honor me with a last dance.”

She wondered if he had chosen the word “honor” specifically to spite her. Had he not utterly besmirched her own honor hours earlier? Did he not understand that she couldn’t honor him with anything more than a smack to the face, much less a dance? It suddenly mattered very little how poorly she herself danced. She wouldn’t have given him her hand even if she had been the most graceful, nimble sprite in the world.

“Mr. Agreste,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “You mistake me for another girl. I don’t have any honor left to give you after what you stole from me tonight.”

Surprise, disbelief, and then something she couldn’t identify flashed across Mr. Agreste’s face.

“I wasn’t aware that I was such a thief.”

“You have, then, a rather dim awareness.”

He mocked her with a small smile.

“Would you not enlighten me during our dance?”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t the time nor the patience,” Marinette snapped. “Goodnight, Mr. Agreste.” 

Before he could say anything more, she turned on her heel and left the doorway, resenting the burn of his continued gaze against her back. She never, not in a million years, wanted to see him ever again and prayed to every star she knew that he wouldn’t be at the proposed Netherfield ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh marinette, you're in for one hell of a storm
> 
> next up, we'll be seeing nino's netherfield estate for the first time! yay! (also djwifi is on the rise dudes DJWIFI IS ON THE RISE)
> 
> again, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! ilysm


	3. She Visits, She Coughs, She Conquers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alya makes some poor life decisions, gets sick, and indirectly causes a battle of wits between Marinette and Adrien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER WAS SO HARD TO WRITE I STG (it's kinda difficult to write characters that are sassier and wittier than i am LOL). still, it was a lot of fun for me so i hope you like it even though it's considerably longer than the last two chapters 
> 
> anyways, the majority of this was written very early in the morning so please cut me some slack if there are any glaring mistakes (but do tell me about them! i want to know!)
> 
> happy reading!

“This can’t possibly be a good idea!” Marinette called as she chased Alya down the hall of her friend’s house. Alya waved a dismissive hand over her head as she tried to maneuver her feet into a pair of leather boots while still clutching the offending letter in her fist.

“It’s my one chance!” she shouted, only slowing down when she reached the front door. She then turned to Marinette, who had successfully kept her balance after skidding to a halt, and brandished the letter triumphantly. “This letter _reeks_ of ulterior motives. Look at it! Chloé Bourgeois would never write me something like this. Politeness isn’t in her blood.”

Marinette couldn’t help but utter a small laugh at that, though she quickly sobered. “That’s true, but it doesn’t mean that Mr. Lahiffe wants to see you immediately. And it certainly doesn’t mean that he wants you to walk the whole way! You’re going to catch a cold!”

“Dinner starts at six,” Alya said through gritted teeth. Her foot wasn’t exactly easing into her left boot. Marinette wondered briefly whether she had grabbed the right one. “It’s nearly five-thirty. And Mum has the carriage, since Sir Oswald and his lady still need to eat. So I haven’t really got a choice, have I?” She finally pushed her foot into her shoe and moved on to the other. 

“You could wait for my parents to return!” Marinette suggested. She tried to keep the pleading tone out of her voice, but failed. “Please, Alya, this weather isn’t meant for walking. It’s cold and rainy and, quite frankly, a miserable day for any sort of activity.”

“I beg to differ!” Alya exclaimed, straightening as her right foot popped into its boot. “Rainy days can be rather nice, if you look at them the right way.”

“The right way? What right way? Do you like being completely drenched in mud?”

“That wouldn’t happen if you just stayed upright!”

“I have no control over my balance,” Marinette snapped, her face reddening. “But I certainly don’t go out of my way to find things to trip over! Do you _want_ to get sick?”

“People have walked in the rain and not gotten sick.”

“It’s a small number! I wouldn’t risk it.”

“That’s because _you_ don’t have a handsome man asking you to dinner!”

“Nino Lahiffe is not asking you to dinner! His childhood friend simply invited you to their house for a ‘cordial meal’ and perhaps a cup of tea! Maybe every time her friend dances with a woman she’s obligated to write to her. You simply don’t know with things like this!”

“And I never will, if I don’t go! Neither Miss Bourgeois nor Mr. Lahiffe will invite me to anything ever again if I don’t show up. It’s a matter of face, Marinette.” She leaned against the door, her hand inching towards the doorknob. “I’ve got to.”

“At least wait a bit for my family’s carriage.”

“And risk being late?” Alya shook her head. “That’s almost as bad as not showing up.”

“How?” Marinette demanded. “I’ve been late before. I’m not dead.”

“This isn’t lunch at Miss Lavillant’s or supper with the Kubdels; it’s a once-in-a-lifetime dinner with Mr. Lahiffe and Miss Bourgeois! I don’t know, maybe even Mr. Agreste will be there.” 

Marinette’s answer was out of her mouth before she could process it.

“I hope not.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, reddening again. “It’s nothing. I still don’t think you should go. At least not yet.”

Alya opened her mouth to answer and then closed it, studying Marinette’s face with sudden interest. Marinette couldn’t meet her eyes. If Alya asked her what had caused her change of heart, she didn’t know how she would react. 

She was saved an interrogation when Fifi and Isabel appeared behind them.

“What’s going on?” Fifi asked. 

“I’m headed to Netherfield Park,” Alya replied, the excitement returning to her voice. She waved the letter again. “I’ve been invited to dinner!”

“Netherfield Park?” Isabel demanded shrilly, her eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. “But that’s where Mr. Lahiffe lives! When did this happen? Who will be there? WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL US THIS EARLIER?”

“I was in a bit of a hurry. Still am, especially since Marinette has been trying to stop me.” Alya glanced sidelong at Marinette, who puffed up indignantly.

“She’s going to freeze to death out there, catch some terrible disease…”

“Oh, don’t listen to her!” Isabel interrupted. She grabbed the doorknob and flung the door open, revealing the raging rainstorm outside. Even Alya seemed a little shaken when a clap of thunder shook the porch’s floorboards. “Just go! Your man is waiting!”

Marinette crossed her arms.

“Feel free to travel in that,” she said. “I’ll have blankets and hot tea for you when you return for your recovery.”

Alya’s gaze hardened.

“I have to,” she murmured, staring into the storm. She raised her voice. “I’ll turn around if it gets really bad. Tell Mum where I went.” Hiking up her skirts, she took a tentative step into the rain. Marinette watched as she trudged through the grass along the side of the house and then turned the corner, her red hair already plastered to her neck.

“She’s going to marry him,” Isabel whispered excitedly, pulling on Fifi’s arm. “We better tell Délia and Élodie. Alya’s going to be rich!”

Marinette’s eyes focused on Alya’s footprints in the mud.

“She’s not going to turn back, is she?” she asked the rain.

—

The next morning, a letter from Alya arrived in the Dupain-Cheng’s post. Marinette was the first to read it. Her hands shaking, she unfolded the crisp yellow paper, scanned the loose black scrawl, and pursed her lips. She snapped the paper shut and turned to Alya’s sisters, who were all staring at her eagerly, having arrived early for a bakery-fresh breakfast.

News from their sister was an unexpected bonus.

“Well?” Isabel demanded. “Are they engaged?”

Marinette sighed. Of course that was Isabel’s primary concern. How much air could fit into one girl’s head?

“No, they’re not engaged,” she said, biting her tongue to keep herself from adding, _you utter imbecile._ The faces of the sisters—with the exception of Élodie, who appeared to be nearing the end of her book—fell.

“Is she coming home, then?” asked Délia.

“No.”

Isabel, who had begun to lose interest, perked up again.

“Why not?”

“She has fallen ill, thanks to you.”

“But that’s fantastic news!” Isabel cried, shaking the dining table as she leapt to her feet. “Mr. Lahiffe will have to care for her overnight! He must have already done so!” She grinned widely over her fried cruller before cocking her head at Marinette’s murderous glare. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Your sister is SICK and you’re happy that she has more of a chance with a man?”

“Yes! Aren’t you? Normally falling ill doesn’t have benefits. Alya’s lucky!”

“So lucky,” Marinette muttered scathingly. She pushed the remainder of her unfinished croissant towards Isabel. “Take it. I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

She stalked out of the dining room and into the kitchen. There, she unfolded Alya’s letter and read it again, this time more closely.

_My dear Marinette,_

_I hope it pleases you to know that dinner here at the Netherfield estate was absolutely splendid. I am very glad that I chose to walk and make my good impression, an endeavor in which I would like to think I have succeeded._

_Unfortunately, you seem to have been right about the cold. I have come down with a rather nasty illness that will ground me here for at least another day. Mr. Lahiffe has been kind enough to offer me a guest room and has been paying me visits every hour. It would seem that he is excited to see me even in this state!_

_Miss Bourgeois has also been kind enough to bring me tea, though she does so with a countenance so sour I imagine it will soon damage her face. And even Mr. Agreste (who was, in fact, at dinner) came to give me his well wishes and a hot towel for my head. Perhaps he is trying to atone for whatever suffering he laid upon you! Don’t think I missed your face yesterday; I am very observant._

_Until the next,_

_Alya Césaire_

It was this mention of Mr. Agreste that ultimately cemented Marinette’s decision. She couldn’t leave Alya—and a sick Alya, at that!—to bear such unpleasantness alone. Her friend needed a familiar face. She turned over the letter and quickly scribbled in its corner before laying it on the counter. She then strode back into the dining room.

“Did your parents leave any beignets?” Isabel called, raising her voice when Marinette didn’t stop. “Wait, where are you going?”

“After Alya.”

“What, on foot?” Délia demanded. “Isn’t that how Alya got sick in the first place?”

“Well,” Marinette replied, turning to the window as she pulled on her boots. “I’ve got the advantage of the sun. Perhaps the road will dry in the time it takes for me to get there.”

“But what shall we tell your parents?”

“Nothing. I’ve left them a note. Ma can tell Papá if he comes home too late,” she said. Her expression softened. “But do tell them I’ll be careful. Ma tends to worry when there’s no need.” She threw a light coat over her shoulders and pushed open the door.

—

“A Miss Dupain-Cheng.”

Marinette’s shoulders hunched at her introduction, her hair falling out of its bun and into her face. Each ragged breath brought a dull burn to her chest. A thin layer of dirt and mud coated the hem of her dress, leaving a dusty brown track in her wake.

Her observation of herself ended when she noticed that the doorman had not yet left her side. Instead, he was looking at her, expectant and a little impatient. The gears in her head spun until she realized, with a flush to the cheeks, what she had forgotten.

Her quick, clumsy curtsy was followed by an elegant flourish from Miss Bourgeois and a bow from Mr. Agreste. They stood at their dining table under the window, the glitter of their porcelain cups and plates dimming in the light of their sun-dappled hair. Marinette suddenly and rather intensely felt wholly plain in their presence. 

She shook the thought off. No. She couldn’t put herself down in front of Mr. Agreste and Miss Bourgeois, the two people who least deserved her envy. She would embrace her dirtiness, proof of her determination and loyalty to her friend. 

“I have come to see Alya,” she said, her voice hoarse but surprisingly steady. “Where is she?”

Chloé’s eyes grazed over her slowly, her lip curling as she relished in the stain of sweat at the top of Marinette’s bodice. She gestured vaguely towards the spiral staircase near the door.

“She’s up there, in the guest suite. Fourth room to your right,” she said. “You can’t miss it. I daresay Mr. Lahiffe is with her, or at least pacing the floor outside.” 

Mr. Agreste said nothing, though his eyes narrowed at the mention of his friend hovering outside of Alya’s room. Marinette’s own expression soured. She wasn’t surprised that Mr. Agreste felt such disapproval at his friend’s interest in Alya. The man, after all, seemed determined to ensure the misery of others.

“Thank you,” Marinette said to Chloé, curtsying again. She then turned to the doorman, who led her to the foot of the staircase before allowing her to ascend alone. 

—

The guest room’s door was open when Marinette arrived. Laughter and whispers drifted to her until she poked her head inside and watched Mr. Lahiffe leap to his feet and bow deeply to the redheaded figure in bed. He then walked towards Marinette.

“How is she?” she whispered urgently as he passed her. 

“Better,” Nino replied. “You came at a good time. She’s talking and not coughing nearly as much.” The sides of his mouth rose in a slight smile as he walked out of the room. She waited until she could no longer hear the dull thuds of his footsteps before approaching the bed.

“I told you, didn’t I?”

“Marinette!” Alya cried gleefully. “You came!” Marinette laughed and tried to embrace her friend over the mountain of pillows that surrounded her. She would have succeeded had Alya not leaned backwards and shooed her away with both hands.

“Don’t come too close,” she warned. “I’m an absolute mess.” As if to prove her point, she hacked into her comforter before turning back to Marinette, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

“Mr. Lahiffe says you’re looking better.”

“He would know, wouldn’t he?” Alya laughed. “Even when he leaves, I can see him lurking in the corridor, just this nervous ball of energy.” Her cheeks reddened. “I don’t think I’ve ever elicited that sort of reaction from anyone.”

“Not even that sailor?”

“Oh, but he was _obsessed_. I could have sprouted fox ears and he wouldn’t have cared.”

“I don’t think fox ears would be enough to push Mr. Lahiffe from you now,” Marinette said gently. 

Alya’s blush deepened before she once again burst into a coughing fit. When she looked up, her eyes jumped to the stray hairs in Marinette’s bun and then the conspicuous grey stain across her bodice. Her brow creased.

“Oh, no,” she said, leaning forwards, a grin beginning to tug at her lips. “Don’t tell me you walked!”

“No…”

Alya’s grin widened as she noticed the soiled hem of Marinette’s dress. 

“You did!” she crowed. 

“I didn’t do it in the rain,” Marinette retorted. Despite her indignation, the delight in Alya’s puffy eyes brought a smile to her face. “Although Isabel seems to think that storm was your greatest stroke of luck.”

“Isabel is an idiot.” She leaned against her pillow and eyed the doorway, where the ends of Nino’s coattails could just be seen. “Today, however, I might be inclined to agree with her. But you must never tell her that.”

“I won’t.” Marinette followed Alya’s gaze towards the doorway and incidentally met Nino’s eye as he doubled back in the middle of his pace. For a moment they simply stared at each other. He then strode into the room as if he had meant to do so all along.

“Miss Marinette,” he said, stumbling over his words. “I mean—no, sorry. Miss Dupain-Cheng. Your friend needs to rest; all of this conversation is damaging her throat. Perhaps you could join Mr. Agreste and Miss Bourgeois downstairs?”

Marinette started to speak before glancing at Alya, who jerked her head at Nino before coughing violently into her arm. Marinette stifled a grin and turned back to Nino, who had become very interested in his feet.

“Of course.”

“I will be with you shortly,” Nino promised in earnest. He clapped Marinette on the shoulder before walking towards Alya, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Marinette hid her smile as she headed into the hall. 

By the time she reached the stairs, however, her lips had flattened into a tight line. A meeting with Adrien Agreste was no place for genuine happiness. 

—

The couches in the drawing room were upholstered with lavish purple velvet, golden embroidery, and tassels. Nestled into the cushions as she was, Marinette felt like a queen, albeit a bored one. Chloé sat beside her, the picture of poise and elegance, although her restless eyes betrayed her. 

Marinette’s gaze returned to the writing desk in the center of the room. Earlier she had tried to avoid the spot, but sheer boredom now drove her to inspect Mr. Agreste’s workspace with uncharacteristic shamelessness. Adrien hunched over a cream-colored sheet and added another flawless swirl of black writing to its surface, his hand effortlessly shifting from inkwell to paper. 

“Your handwriting is just splendid,” Chloé commented, suddenly standing. She swept to Adrien’s side and leaned over his desk, resting her head on her folded arms.

“Just a lot of practice,” Adrien replied. He didn’t look up from his work. Instead, he added yet another line to his letter and reached in front of Chloé to grab from a surplus pile of paper. Her lips pursed in annoyance, Chloé stepped back and circled to his other side. 

“It must be hours of practice, then.”

“Indeed.”

“How I wish there were more men with the patience and determination to create such a lovely hand! Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course.” He drew out his movements as he reached for the inkwell and returned to his writing. “A lovely hand is, after all, the key to success. It is a fact that is often forgotten.”

Marinette blinked, pulled quite suddenly from her drifting thoughts. Had that been sarcasm? She hadn’t thought a man like Adrien Agreste could be capable of sarcasm. 

“Quite right,” Chloé answered with a smile. Mr. Agreste’s comment, had it truly been sarcasm, had escaped her entirely. “I know few accomplished women who cannot boast of a lovely hand.”

“An accomplished woman must be able to boast of more than just a lovely hand,” Adrien scoffed. “She must also be able to read and draw. She must hone her proficiency in several languages, three at the minimum, and must also master the art of embroidery. Learning to play an instrument isn’t mandatory, but adds to her appeal.”

“My goodness,” Marinette spat, unable to help herself. Boredom had rendered her bold. “That is one incredible list of accomplishments. How many of these women do you know?”

“Six, last I checked.”

“Six! I would like to meet these women. They must be divine.”

Adrien stared at her with something she could only identify as amazement. Or perhaps it was anger? Bitterness? Surprise? He was impossible to read.

“They are merely acquaintances,” he said after a long pause.

“Then perhaps you misjudged them,” Marinette replied. “You have, after all, held them to an impossible standard.”

“Impossible only for those who haven’t tried.”

“Tried? Can you speak more than three languages, Mr. Agreste? Perhaps we ought to converse in French. Or, if you can’t do that, at least write the remainder of that letter in Mandarin Chinese!”

“A noble proposition, if only I had more time.”

“I could give you all the time in the world and still you would not succeed!”

“Is that a dare?”

“Perhaps.”

“And if I took you up on it?”

“How long would you need?”

Adrien grimaced and returned to his letter.

“Are you out of your mind?” Chloé hissed as Marinette folded her arms and leaned back against the couch. “Mr. Agreste isn’t to be trifled with!”

“He trifled with me,” Marinette grumbled.

Chloé stared at her in shock, her mouth fluttering open and closed as she struggled for a response. Finally, she gave up and reacted in the only way she could. A stiff smile forced itself onto her face.

“Perhaps we can mend your bond,” she said, reaching for Marinette with an elegant hand. “Shall we take a spin around the room?” 

Out of the corner of her eye, Marinette saw that Adrien’s attention remained stubbornly on his work. Her jaw tightened.

“It would be my pleasure,” she said. “Perhaps the gentleman would like to join us?” 

“There are two reasons you could have decided to walk,” Adrien replied steadily. His green gaze pierced her. “One, you tired of sitting and wished to stretch your legs. Two, you wanted your movement to catch my attention. In the case of the former, your purpose does not require my company. And if the second is true, consider me caught right where I am.” His eyes glittered.

“If so, you’re easily caught,” Marinette snapped. “Miss Bourgeois and I have barely walked three paces.”

“I am easily impressed.”

“Tell that to the hundreds of women you consider unaccomplished, myself included!”

“You could hire a tutor,” Chloé interjected, her eyes flashing, clearly annoyed that the conversation had once again diverted from her. “There are plenty available, even for women who aren’t of noble standing.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I think I’ll pass,” Marinette said. “A baker’s daughter hasn’t the right temperament for embroidery and instruments. I’m simply made for flour, I’m afraid.”

“A shame,” Adrien murmured. His eyes lingered on her for so long that she fidgeted, suddenly enclosed in his gaze.

“How so?”

“You would have made an impressive lady.”

_And somehow less of a baker’s daughter?_ Before she could get the words out of her mouth, however, a cheery voice interrupted her.

“I see you’re all getting along!”

Marinette, with difficulty, swallowed her retort as Nino descended the stairs, grinning down at them as if they were all the best of friends. She and Chloé hastily returned to their seats on the couch, although Marinette noted that this time the other woman didn’t sit quite as close to her. Adrien reached for his inkwell again, quietly adding the finishing touches to his letter.

“What did I miss?”

Marinette looked up at Nino, with his shining amber eyes and air of oblivious naiveté, and shook her head in wonder.

“Just a little chat,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who knew i could have so much fun writing chloé.......
> 
> next up we have the introduction of my version of mr. wickham, everyone's favorite douchecanoe! went through a few characters who could have taken this part, so i hope you guys like (or want to punch in the face, idk) my ultimate decision!
> 
> now time to write the dang thing, woo hoo
> 
> kudos and comments are hugely appreciated!


	4. A Trip To Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marinette meets a man who looks offputtingly like Mr. Agreste and learns some interesting things about him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update! I've been working on opening my novel for beta-reading (if you're interested, check out this page on my writing blog: http://jamieanovels.tumblr.com/betareading) and just trying to get my Austen-emulating mojo back :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! "Wickham" was a lot of fun to write, although I REALLY want to give Marinette a little reality-shake, lol!
> 
> If you catch any glaring mistakes, please let me know!

It was upon Marlena’s request that Marinette and the Césaire girls headed out to town. According to her mother, Alya was a few days rested and itching for the warmth of the sun. Alya herself maintained that she was already healed, but had no complaints with a little shopping.

“If Mr. Lahiffe truly wishes to host his own ball,” she said as she adjusted her white bonnet, “I must be outfitted to match the place.”

“Your violet gown is no less splendid than Netherfield,” Marinette protested.

“True, but I can’t wear the same dress twice! Mr. Lahiffe would think me base.”

“You would have to don a bowler hat and Papá’s old baking apron for Mr. Lahiffe to consider _you_ base,” Marinette scoffed. “And even then he would probably still find you endearing.”

“I would rather him find me pretty,” Alya said, drawing on her boots with a small smile. “And a few town ribbons to replace your hypothetical bowler could be just the thing, wouldn’t you say?” She flounced onto the porch and called to her sisters with a dramatic flourish.

“Come along, girls! Let’s show Marinette what a true Césaire outing is like.”

“It’s loud,” Marinette grumbled as Délia, Isabel, and Fifi whirled past her in a gale of laughter, Élodie radiating annoyance behind them. “I practically live with you. This isn’t our first trip to town, nor will it be our last.”

“Quit being such a spoilsport!” Isabel laughed. She darted to Marinette’s side and grabbed one of the cookie bags Sabine had lovingly packaged earlier that morning, stuffing it in a fold of her dress. She grinned at Marinette’s murderous glare. “Surely the soldiers can spare _one_.”

“My family makes a living off of that bakery!”

“Isabel,” Alya warned, shooting her sister a raised eyebrow. Isabel puckered her lips in mock defiance before tossing the cookie bag back into Marinette’s wicker basket. She then ran to join her other sisters, who had begun to round the corner of the Césaire home.

Once they were out of sight, Alya turned back to Marinette, her gaze a little apologetic.

“Sorry,” she said. “You know how they can get.”

“Yes.” Marinette noticed, despite her vexation, that Alya’s eyes were fond. She couldn’t help but absorb a bit of that affection. Reaching out, she looped her arm through that of her friend.

“You know,” she said as they started to walk. “This will be good for both of us. A little bit of sun, some ribbons for Netherfield…who knows? Perhaps I’ll inherit some of your luck.”

—

Several purchases later, the girls emerged from the ribbon shop to the raucous sound of marching footsteps, shouting, and laughter. A small crowd had built up at the corner of the avenue and continued to grow larger as more passersby paused to gawk.

“Oh my God,” Isabel breathed, her voice rising in pitch. “It’s the soldiers! They’re here!” She grabbed Fifi’s arm and pulled her towards the crowd, which had doubled in size in the time it had taken for her to speak. “We must get a good view!”

“Wait—” Alya started, before trailing off as her sisters disappeared into the throng of spectators. She glanced at Marinette, who shrugged and hoisted her basket of cookies farther up her shoulder. 

“It’s as good an opportunity as any to hand these out. And besides…”

“We can’t lose them,” Alya finished for her. She pursed her lips and then snatched a handful of bags from Marinette’s basket and barreled into the crowd. The spectators near the back parted for her—both out of surprise and necessity—as she yelled, “Cookies? Free cookies!” at the top of her lungs. 

“We should probably follow her,” Élodie said dully. 

“Right,” Marinette answered after a short pause. She adjusted her basket for the third time that morning and nodded at Délia. “Try to get to the front. If we get separated, wave your ribbons.”

“And if we find Fifi and Isabel first?”

Marinette sighed. 

“We’ll rein them in as much as we can,” she said at last. She then made a shooing motion with her free hand. The cookie bags Alya was waving were already sinking deeper and deeper into the throng of spectators. “Go! I’ll take the rear.”

Grabbing onto Délia’s arm to keep her and her sister in sight, Marinette weaved through the suffocating crowd until she finally pushed her way to the very front. To her left, she caught sight of Alya, her hands now free, standing guard behind Isabel and Fifi. Isabel wore the brightest grin Marinette had ever seen, while Fifi anxiously twisted the curls of her red locks around her fingers.

Then, to Marinette’s right came the soldiers, five to a row, marching with their muskets against their shoulders and their red-ribboned braids bouncing against their backs. From a distance they looked like a sea of unending crimson, but close-up Marinette could see their sweat-soaked brows, their blinking eyes, even the rise and fall of their button-clad chests.

“My,” Délia breathed. Marinette couldn’t help but agree. She shaded her eyes and set them on a spot directly beside Élodie on the edge of the walking path. She took a step forward and then, almost in slow motion, found herself skidding on the trailing end of a large woman’s dress. Down she went, her basket flying out of her hands and into the line of marching soldiers. She landed hard on her rump, the impact forcing a squeak of surprise through her teeth. 

For a moment all she saw were spots. Whether they were of dazedness or pure humiliation, she had no idea. All she knew was that one moment she was standing, and the next she was looking up into the eyes of several concerned spectators and a face that looked suspiciously like…

“ _Adrien Agreste?_ ” she gasped.

As soon as she spoke, she regretted it. The man who held her basket was not Adrien Agreste, though at first glance he looked astonishingly like him. This man was taller and leaner than Adrien, with a slightly more angular face and narrower eyes. At the sound of Adrien’s name, his face soured before masterfully morphing into a charming, almost lopsided smile.

Marinette’s heart fluttered as he gently curled her fingers around the handles of her basket. 

“Félix,” he said. His voice was rich and lilting, almost like smoothed butter. “At your service, miss.”

“Uh…um,” Marinette stammered, her cheeks burning. Unable to pull her words into sentences, she focused her gaze on Félix’s boots and thrust her basket towards him. One of the cookie bags fell on its side, flaunting the Ladybug-embroidered ribbon securing it shut. “Cookie?”

Félix plucked the bag from the top of the pile and examined it.

“The Ladybug?” he asked. 

“Our bakery. I mean…no, it’s my parents’ bakery. Ours. Longbourne. I mean, not the house, but the end of the property. Near the road.” She ended with an embarrassed, red-faced smile. 

“I will be sure to visit.” He offered her a dramatic bow, that warm grin still playing on his lips. He then noted that his company was leaving and shot her a quick, formal salute before melting into the crimson sea. She followed his blonde braid until the following few rows of soldiers eclipsed it. 

It was then that the Césaire sisters, somehow reunited in the time it had taken for her to fall and meet a stranger, pushed through the crowd that had formed around her. Alya’s hand brought her to her feet. 

“Who _was_ that?”

“Félix,” Marinette replied, bewildered herself. “He took one of my cookies.”

“Well,” Alya said with a laugh, pulling her back onto the walking path. “That’s certainly a good start.”

—

“How long do we need to be here?” Alya asked, leaning against the beignet display. The afternoon sun warmed the wooden shelves of the Ladybug a golden yellow. 

Marinette looked up from organizing her tray of macarons. “As long as my parents are working in the back. I’d wager an hour, perhaps two.” She plucked an orange macaron from her tray and eased it into the line of similarly colored sweets she had collected on a separate sheet of waxed paper. 

“You don’t have to stay with me, you know,” she added. Alya shrugged.

“I haven’t anything better to do. At any rate, Délia has yet to leave me alone; she wants me to help her with her hair and her dress and God knows what else.” She rolled her eyes. “Seems like she’s convinced that Netherfield Ball is going to happen.”

“I thought Mr. Lahiffe said it was?”

“He seemed very approving of it. But Mr. Agreste and Miss Bourgeois seem…concerned, to say in the least. I imagine he will have asked their opinion and weighed them against his rather heavily.”

“Mr. Agreste has already made his dislike of common dances apparent,” Marinette replied disparagingly. “And Miss Bourgeois would follow him to the ends of the earth. If Mr. Lahiffe knows what’s best for him, he’ll listen to his instincts and not the advice of an ill-tempered man.” 

“Ill-tempered indeed,” came a familiar voice. Marinette’s head snapped up from her macaron tray. Leaning against the door with nonchalant grace was none other than Félix. With his blonde locks and crimson uniform, he looked fiery, almost as if he were radiating light. Heat crept into Marinette’s cheeks and across her freckled nose. 

Alya’s eyes darted between them, gleaming with amusement. She detached herself from the shelf of beignets and patted Marinette on the shoulder.

“I’ll be going now. Délia will surely be wondering where I’ve gone.”

“But you said…”

Alya leaned close to her.

“You can thank me later,” she whispered. She then gave Marinette a teasing salute and sauntered towards the door. Her face split into a huge grin as she passed Félix and disappeared from sight.

Marinette returned her gaze to the man in her bakery’s doorway.

“You can come in,” she said hesitantly. Félix bowed and entered, slowly meandering his way amongst the shop’s pastry-laden shelves, his eyes curious.

“Your cookies were a success,” he said eventually, gracing her with a warm smile. “We enjoyed them immensely. The privates couldn’t seem to get enough.”

“Thank you.” She pointed at the shelf to Félix’s right, not trusting herself enough to look him in the eye. “We’ve got several varieties. The larger ones call a higher price.”

“I see.” He glanced at her, drawing out the silence, almost as if he was trying to decide what to say. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind. “How was it that Adrien Agreste made your acquaintance?”

Marinette smiled humorlessly.

“With difficulty. He refused to dance with me and then stooped as low as to demean my family and color,” she said. “To put it simply, I have no intention of speaking with him again.”

“A good decision.” Félix took the spot Alya had occupied moments before. “Mr. Agreste is not the man many peg him to be.”

“Oh?” Marinette perked up. She could not miss another opportunity to soil Adrien Agreste’s name. The idea that he could have insulted someone other than herself did not come as a surprise. 

“Indeed,” Félix replied, bowing his head. “And I know him better than most, since I have the misfortune of calling him ‘brother.’”

Marinette’s eyes widened. So Félix was Adrien’s brother? That would certainly explain their similarity in looks, though not in personality.

“We aren’t brothers of blood, mind you,” Félix clarified. “More brothers of necessity. You see, our father took me in when I was a child. Indebted as he was to my biological father, a good friend of his and the matchmaker for him and his late wife, he felt obligated to raise me as his own. I took on his name and inherited his son as my brother.”

“And you hated each other?”

“On the contrary, we were inseparable. You may have noticed we look quite alike; for many years we thought we were twins. Our father…ah…he never exactly informed us that I was not truly their kin. I didn’t discover my real history until our father denied me of my inheritance.”

“But,” Marinette began, bewildered. “What for? Were you not the eldest son?”

“I was. I was also his favorite. But even he couldn’t defy the law for me. Since I didn’t have his blood, I couldn’t inherit his possessions, including his wealth and property.” His face soured. “Adrien got all of it. And when our father died, I went to him believing that he would feel compassion for me. After all, we had been childhood friends and brothers.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No. His greed got the better of him, I imagine. Jealous that I had always received the most love from our father, he refused me and then disappeared off somewhere I couldn’t find him. Try as I did, I was unable to locate him. Until today, that is.”

Marinette stared in amazement.

“You joined the army to track him?”

“No. I joined the army because of my biological father’s legacy. But yes, I’ll admit, I hoped my travels would lead me to him. I would demand an apology, at least an explanation. I would stand up to him like I never could before.”

His gaze fixed on his feet and stayed there, morose. Marinette tried to summon up some sort of apology, a semblance of empathy, of sympathy, but she couldn’t. Adrien’s insults towards her seemed like child’s play in comparison to the cruelty with which he had treated his adoptive brother.

Childhood friends.

Inseparable.

Only to be pushed away due to selfish greed.

Adrien Agreste was far worse than she had ever imagined.

“I’m sorry,” she finally whispered. Félix nodded before raising his head towards the doorway. She then watched his expression morph from sorrow to horror. Startled, she stepped out from behind the wooden counter and reached out a hand towards him.

“What is—”

Her voice trailed off as her eyes caught on the source of Félix’s distress. Outside the bakery just a few meters from the door rode Nino Lahiffe on an impeccably groomed black stallion, waving cheerily. And beside him, glaring at Félix, was Adrien Agreste.

“It’s alright,” Marinette said quietly, shielding Félix with her body. “You don’t need to look at him.” She caught Adrien’s eye and stared daggers at him until he leaned over to Nino and whispered something to him. The latter nodded and then the two snapped their reins and were gone. 

“I really should be going,” Félix said suddenly, as soon as the riders were out of earshot. “The company will be missing me and I…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Of course,” Marinette replied. She ushered him out and then, on an afterthought, snatched a few cookies from a shelf and handed them to him. He took them with a look of grateful surprise.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she replied, meaning it. As she watched him leave, she wondered how two men could look so similar and act as different as night and day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next, everybody dances and we'll get some more spiteful Adrienette banter and DJWifi!! 
> 
> i might be even more sporadic with posts after this because my summer is coming to an end; just as a heads-up! hope you guys understand <3
> 
> kudos and comments always make my day!!


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